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bait_backup*The face of Crouch Sr.'s watch informs him that: it is 7:08, his office and his home remain locked and empty, and he has three unanswered owls waiting for him after he delivers his announcement. He has been checking the watch regularly all morning, once every seven minutes as if he himself is made of clockwork. It is not a habit brought on by nerves, he as always has every thought prepared ahead of time and then some and he knows the press will not falter in their practice of portraying him and the Ministry in the proper light.
Instead, his routine timekeeping began as a way to keep track of the progress of his son as the Ministry cars delivered him in good and steady time from Brighton to London. With each passing minute Crouch Sr. had known their corresponding location, anticipating morning traffic and muggle heavy areas, each sure glance at the time reporting to him that everything is going perfectly. He checks it even now, just for prosperity's sake, despite the fact that he can hear the building, echoing tones of Barty speaking as he is lead toward the back room where the Crouches will wait to take their seats. He puts down his wrist, smiles toward Bernadette too show her Barty has been successfully contained and corralled thus far, and stands to greet his reluctant and too vibrantly dressed blond-haired, blue-eyed ticket into the hearts of wizarding Britain.*
You are eight minutes late, Bartemius. And you will not be wearing that.
Instead, his routine timekeeping began as a way to keep track of the progress of his son as the Ministry cars delivered him in good and steady time from Brighton to London. With each passing minute Crouch Sr. had known their corresponding location, anticipating morning traffic and muggle heavy areas, each sure glance at the time reporting to him that everything is going perfectly. He checks it even now, just for prosperity's sake, despite the fact that he can hear the building, echoing tones of Barty speaking as he is lead toward the back room where the Crouches will wait to take their seats. He puts down his wrist, smiles toward Bernadette too show her Barty has been successfully contained and corralled thus far, and stands to greet his reluctant and too vibrantly dressed blond-haired, blue-eyed ticket into the hearts of wizarding Britain.*
You are eight minutes late, Bartemius. And you will not be wearing that.
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